


Green sign with a mermaid

by bricksandbones



Series: Mad about the boy [8]
Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 22:00:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14198562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bricksandbones/pseuds/bricksandbones
Summary: I miss you, you twit.





	Green sign with a mermaid

No flowers at the funeral.  
It's a shame, with how fond I've become of impermanence. I'm munching a croissant and thinking of the rise of the dead (this Chai is too sweet, you said).  
It suits you.

  
The carpet is still falling down my stairs. I can still never get my scrip on time. I think how we'd commiserate as my hands shake - never enough. I know now the price of self-loathing and I want to think you were taken too soon,

but only you know.

  
We'd talk about Warcraft and the innumerable ways to kill a mark; gallows humour was always your forte ("how many bodies do you think there are in there?" - description of a portaloo). I want to complain that my computer is now officially outdated. I guess if you're up there, you already know.  
It's stupid trivial things like that and refusing to go back to that blue diner (I should've known), and wondering why you stopped smoking, wondering how good intentions can go so wrong.

  
Or did they?

  
I remember wondering what the heck would possess someone to drink decaf. Guess who's trying it now. I guess you knew better than me that life goes on (until it doesn't). I was in denial of depression's best mate anxiety - not any more. If the black dog is a knife then the red stallion is a smoking gun.  
I might want to die (who doesn't?) but -

  
(There is no but except the promise I made. Grief hasn't changed my mind that grieving is selfish.)

  
You had a gift, and I don't, but maybe "gift" is the wrong word, maybe no facility comes without strings attached - in that case, I must be the lucky one.

  
I wish you could see the nice things people are writing about you. Do ghosts use the internet? I know I'm writing to thin air (what are ghosts even made of?). Neither of us believe(s?/d?) there's anything after death. 

  
What's one more exercise in futility? It's a futile universe. I know I'll be back.


End file.
